Chapter 7
Book VII. Ethendune. The Last Charge. Away in the waste of the white horse down, an idle child alone, played some small game through hours that pass, and patiently would pluck the grass, patiently push the stone.
On the lean green edge forever, where the bank chalk touched the turf, the child played alone divine, as a child plays on the last line that senders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions, too simple to understand, seeing on what morn of mystery the uncreated rent the sea, with the roaring from the land. Through the long infant hours like days he built one tower in vain, piled up small stones
to make a town, and evermore the stones fell down, and he piled them up again. When crimson kings on battle towers, and saints on gothic spires, and hermits on their peaks of snow, and heroes on their pyres, and patriots riding royally to rush the rocking town, stretch hands and hunger and aspire, seeking to mount where high and higher, the child whom time can never tire, sings over white horse down.
And this was the might of Alfred, at the ending of the way, that of such smiters, wise or he was least distant from the child, piling the stones all day. For Eldred fought like a frank hunter, that killeth and goeth home, and Mark had fought because all arms rang like the name of Rome. And Colin fought with a double mind, moody and madly gay, but Alfred fought as gravely,
as a good child at play. He saw wheels break and work run back, and all things as they were, and his heart was warped like victory, and simple like despair. Therefore is Mark forgotten, that was wise with his tongue and brave, and the caren over Colin crumbled, and the cross on Eldred's grave.
Their great souls went on a wind away, and they have not tale or tomb, and Alfred born unwontage rules England till the doom. Because in the forest of all fears, like a strange fresh gust from sea, struck him that ancient innocence, that is more than mastery. And as a child whose bricks fall down, repiles them ore and ore, came ruined in the rain
that burns, returning as a wheel returns, and crouching in the firs and ferns, he began his life once more. He took his ivory horn unslung, and smiled but not in scorn, and at the battle of Ethendune, with the blowing of a horn. On a dark course at the double way, he saw great Guthrum ride, heard roar of brass and
ring of steel, the laughter and the trumpet-peel, the pagan in his pride. And Ogier's red and hated head moved in some talk or task, but the men seemed scattered in the briar, and some of them had lit a fire, and one had broached a cask. And wagons one or two stood up, like tall ships in sight, as if an outpost weren't camped, at the cloven ways for night.
And joyous of the sudden stay, of Alfred's routed few, sat one upon a stone to sigh, and some slipped up the road to fly, till Alfred in the fern hard by, set horn to mouth and blew. And they all abode like statues, one sitting on the stone, one half-way through the thorn hedge tall, one with a leg across a wall, and one looked backwards very small, far up
the road alone. Grey twilight and a yellow star, hung over thorn and till. Two spears and a cloven warshield lay, loose on the road as cast away, the horn died faint in the forest gray, and the fleeing man stood still. Brothers at arms, said Alfred, on this side lies the foe, our slavery and starvation flowers,
that you should pluck them so. For whether is it better, to be prodded with Danish poles, having hewn a chamber in a ditch, and hounded like a howling witch, or smoked to death in holes? Or that before the red-cocked crow, all we a thousand strong, go down the dark road to God's house, singing a Wessex song?
To sweat a slave to a race of slaves, to drink up infamy? No, brothers, by your leave I think, death is a far better ale to drink. And by all the stars of Christ that sink, the Danes shall drink with me. To grow old, cowed in a conquered land, with the sun itself discrowned, to see trees crouch and cattle slink, death is a better ale to drink.
And by high death on the fell brink, that flagon shall go round. Though dead are all the paladins, whom glory had in kin. Though all your thunder-sworded thanes, with proud hearts died among the Danes, while a man remains, great war remains, now is a war of men. The men that tear the furrows, the men that fell the trees, when all their lords be lost
and dead, the bondsmen of the earth shall tread, the tyrants of the seas. The wheel of the roaring stillness, of all labors under the sun, speed the wild work as well at least, as the wild world's work is done. Let Hildred hack the shield-wall, clean as he hacks the hedge. Let Girth the Fowler stand as cool, as he stands on the chasm's edge.
Let Gourlius ride the sea-kings, as Gourlius rides the sea. Then let all hell and Denmark drive, Yelling to all its fiends alive, and not a rag care we. When Alfred's word was ended, stood firm that feeble line, each in his place with club or spear, And fury deeper than deep fear, and smiles
as sour as brine. And the king held up the horn and said, See ye my father's horn, that Egbert blew in his empiry, once when he rode out commonly, twice when he rode out for Venery, and thrice on the battle-worn. But heavier fates have fallen, the horn of the Wessex kings, and I blew once the riding
sign, To call you to the fighting line, and glory and all good things. And now two blasts, the hunting sign, because we turn to bay, but I will not blow the three blasts till we be lost or they. And now I blow the hunting sign, charge some by rule and rod, but when I blow the battle sign, charge all and go to God.
Wild stared the Danes at the double ways, where they loitered all at large, as that dark line for the last time doubled the need to charge, and caught their weapons clumsily, and marveled how and why, in such degree by rule and rod, the people of the peace of God went roaring down to die. And when the last arrow was fitted and was flown, when the broken shield hung on the
breast, and the hopeless lance was laid in rest, and the hopeless horn blown, the king looked up and what he saw was a great light like death. For our lady stood on the standard's rent, as lonely and as innocent, as when between white walls she went, and the lilies of Nazareth. One instant in a still light he saw our lady then.
Her dress was soft as western sky, and she was a queen most womanly, but she was a queen of men. Over the iron forest he saw our lady stand. Her eyes were sad without an art, and seven swords were in her heart, but one was in her hand.
Then the last charge went blindly, and all too lost for fear. The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, and twenty clubs rose o'er the king. Four Danes hewed at him, hallowing, and Ogier of the stone and sling drove at him with a spear. But the Danes were wild with laughter, and the great spear swung wide.
The point stuck to a straggling tree, and either host cried suddenly, as Alfred left aside. Short time had shaggy Ogier to pull his lance in line. He knew King Alfred's axe on high. He heard it rushing through the sky.
He cowered beneath it with a cry, and split him to the spine. And Alfred sprang over him dead, and blew the battle-sign. Then bursting all and blasting, King Christendom like death, kicked of such catapults of will, the staves shiver, the barrels spill, the wagons waver and crash and kill, the wagoners beneath. Barriers go backwards, banners rend, great shields groan like a gong, horses like corns
of nightmare, nay, horribly and long. The waves ramp high and rock and boil, and break their golden reins, and slide on carnage clamorously, down where the bitter blood doth lie, where Ogier went on foot to die, in the old way of the Danes. The high tide, King Alfred cried, the high tide and the turn, as the tide turns on the
tall gray seas, see how they waver in the trees, how stray their spears, how knock their knees, how wild their watchfires burn. The Mother of God goes over them, walking on wind and flame, and the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale, and the white horse stamps and the white horse veil, and we all shall yet drink Christian ale in the village of our name.
The Mother of God goes over them, on dreadful sherabs borne, and the psalm is roaring above the rune, and the cross goes over the sun and moon, and it's the battle of Ethendune, with the blowing of a horn. For back indeed disorderly the Danes went clamoring, too worn to take anew the tale, or dazed with insolence and ale, or stunned of heaven or stricken pale before the face
of the King. For dire was Alfred in his hour, the pale scribe witnesseth. More mighty in defeat was he than all men else in victory, and behind his men came murderously, dry-throated, drinking death, and Edgar of the golden ship he slew with his own hand, took Ludwig from his lady's bower, and smote down harmor in his hour, and vain and lonely
stood the tower, the tower in Gjöldaland, and tore out of his tiny boat, whose eyes beheld the Nile, wolf with his war-cry on his lips, and Harco born in the Eclipse, who blocked the sign with battleships round Paris on the Isle, and Haken of the Harvest Song, and Dirk from the Elbe slew, and Canute that melted Durham Bell, and Folk the fiery Oscar fell, and Godric and Siegel, and Uriel of the Ewe, and Hyas sang the slaughter, and
fastest fell the slain, when from the wood-roads blackening throat a crowning and crashing wonder-smote the rear-guard of the Dane. For the dregs of Cullen's company, lost down the other road, had gathered and grown and heard the din, and with wild yells came pouring in, naked as their old British kin, and bright with blood for woad.
When barren, bloody, and aloft, they bore before their band, the body of the mighty lord, Cullen of Caerleon and its horde, that bore King Alfred's battle-sword, broken in his left hand. And a strange music went with him, loud and yet strangely far, the wild pipes of the western land, too keen for the ear to understand, sang high and deathly on each hand, when the
dead man went to war. Hocked between Ghost and Buccaneer, brave men had dropped and died, and the wild sea-lords well might quail, as the ghastly war-pipes of the gale called to the horns of the white-horse veil, and all the horns replied. And Hildred the poor hedger cut down four captains dead, and Hallmer laid three others
low, and the great earls wavered to and fro, for the living and the dead. And Gourlius grasped the great flag, the raven of Odin torn, and the eyes of Guthrum altered, for the first time since morn, as a turn of the wheel of Tempest tilts up the whole sky tall, and cliffs of wan clouds luminous lean out like great walls over us, as if the heavens might fall.
As such a tall and tilted sky, since certain snow or light, so did the eyes of Guthrum change, and the turn was more certain and more strange than a thousand men in flight. For not till the floor of the skies is split, and hell-fire shines through the sea, or the stars look up through the rent-earth's knees, come as such rending of certainties, as when one wise man truly sees what is more wise than he.
He set his horse in the battle-breach, even Guthrum of the Dane, and as ever had fallen fell his brand, a falling tower or many a land, but Gert the Fowler laid one hand upon this bridal reign. King Guthrum was a great lord, and higher than his gods. He put the popes to laughter, he chid the saints with rods.
He took this hollow world of ours, for a cup to hold his wine, and the parting of the woodways, there came to him a sign. And Wessex in the forest, and the breaking of the spears, we set a sign on Guthrum to blaze a thousand years. Where the high saddles jostle, and the horse-tails toss, there rose to the birds flying, a roar
of dead and dying, and deafness and strong crying, we signed him with the cross. Far out to the winding river, the blood ran down for days, when we put the cross on Guthrum, and the parting of the ways. End of Book VII
